


This is A Choice; This is My Duty

by painted_pain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painted_pain/pseuds/painted_pain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They need food. They need to pay the rent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is A Choice; This is My Duty

Dean waits until Sam is sleeping, covers around his waist, skin luminous in the light of the half-moon peering through the window. His arms are hanging over the sides of the bed, feet sticking out from underneath the sheets of the motel bed. He’s gotten so tall, almost as tall as Dean, in the last two months, at least four inches. He needs new clothes, new shoes. They need food. They need to pay the rent.   
  
Sitting up in his own bed, Dean huffs out a sigh, mentally counting the money collected in the brown paper envelope under his mattress. It’s not enough. John never leaves enough, always a couple of hundred short, the stack of bills too thin in Dean’s calloused hands, crumpled and torn, pathetic slips of paper that burn away like they’re nothing but wisps of air. John’s not back for another week, he said so in the last phone call two days ago, which means at least two weeks. Dean knows his father. He doesn’t get it sometimes, too wrapped up being a superhero to worry about all the little things that Dean has to take care of, everything he does for Sam.    
  
He puts his feet flat firmly on the rough motel carpet, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes hard, until a kaleidoscope of colours explode across the back of his eyes, his own private fireworks show, the only one he ever really gets to see. All for him. Just for him.   
  
Dean shoves himself off the bed quietly and pads over to his duffel bag that had been dumped unceremoniously by the tiny table in the even tinier kitchenette. He pulls the zipper down, the rapid fire  _snick, snick, snick_  almost too loud in the silence surrounding him but Sam doesn’t stir. He never does, still too young to sleep like a soldier, always on the edge, ready to spring awake and rip some monster to shreds. Sam, when he sleeps, sleeps like the dead. It’s just what Sam does, part and parcel of everything that makes up him. Dean isn’t looking forward to the day when John forces it out and it disappears forever. But it’s not something he thinks about, buried beneath the weight of everything else.    
  
He pulls out a small, compact bundle from underneath all his dirty clothes and carries it into the bathroom, closing the bathroom door before he turns on the light. The harsh, stark glare makes his eyes water and he closes them, bracing himself for the burn. He puts the bundle on the counter beside the sink without opening his eyes. His stomach rolls uncomfortably and he places his hands on the lip of the cracked white sink, lowering his head to hang between his shoulders. For a few long moments, he breaths deeply in his own personal darkness until he settles, stomach still and throat working calmly. This is just something he has to do.   
  
Dean opens his eyes and blinks until his eyes adjust, pain dissipating, pupils shrinking, everything reacting the way it’s supposed to. He doesn’t look at his reflection in the mirror, he can’t not yet, not willing to see what is there. He slowly, methodically, impassively unwraps the bundle by his left hand, separating the two fabrics tangled up together, jean and cotton, ripped and frayed and worn. He takes out what he finds in the centre, lining all three items on the other side of the counter. Dean takes in a deep breath and shucks off his sleep t-shirt, replacing it with the white wife-beater, two sizes to small and even though it’s just simple cotton, he feels like it’s contracting, slowly squeezing the air out of him.    
  
His boxers drop to the floor and he kicks them off his feet, flinging them away from him, a sneer splashed across his face. Dean turns around to lock the door because he can’t afford Sam to stumble onto this. He’ll do what he has to for this family, he always will, but there are some things he cannot let anyone else know, locked up inside him, dark and ugly, his own little dirty secret.   
  
Dean stares at the three things lined up, warring with himself over the order of doing this. His ass may be bare to the chill of the cold bathroom but he knows he won’t be able to look himself in the mirror if he does - -  _that_  first. So he picks up one of the items he had lined up and uncaps it with a pop. He looks to the mirror, knowing he has to do this now, skin crawling anyway, and brings the black kohl pencil up to his right eye, running it heavily under his lower-lid and then over the upper one, the tip of the pencil sharp against the delicate skin around his eye. He brings the pencil over to his left eye and does the same thing. Thick black lines ring his eyes and he caps the pencil, putting back in the place where he’d picked it up. Dean brings his fingers up and rubs at the lines ruthlessly, smudging the eyeliner brutally, feeling some satisfaction in the sting of it.   
  
Pulling his hands back, he stares at his reflection and can objectively recognise that his green eyes pop now, his youthful  _prettiness_  dirtied and roughened up.    
  
Taking a deep gulp of stale air, he picks up the second item, opening it with a click and pouring its contents over his right hand, the liquid cool against his skin. Dean puts the bottle back on the counter and reaches behind himself, rubbing his fingers across the tensed muscles of his rim and then pushing one finger in, hissing at the slight burn. Gritting his teeth, he shoves a second finger in, scissoring his fingers relentlessly, stretching and easing the ache. After several tense moments, Dean pressing in a third finger in, gasping lowly at the fullness inside him, far too much and yet, suddenly teetering on the edge of not enough. Thrusting three times, rim clenching greedily, and then he pulls all three fingers out, wanting to hit something, wanting to scream, wanting so many things that he can’t have and can’t do.   
  
Dean takes the third item and covers it with lube from the still open bottle on the counter. It’s big enough to keep him open but small enough so that he stays - - tight. He thrusts it in without ceremony, swallowing a groan at how good it feels, feeling wrong and mixed up and dirty. Keeping his head low and away from the mirror so he doesn’t have to  _see_ , he pulls on his tight, black jeans, rips at his knees, one at his thigh and another just below the right back pocket. His white wife-beater barely reaches the waistband, a strip of skin bared to the world for everyone to see. It’s all for everyone to see. Anyone can see.   
  
Capping the lube, he puts it in his front pocket, leaving the eye pencil and boxers where they are. Dean can’t bring himself to care, an itch to just get out, to get it over with, to do what he has to do.   
  
Dean turns off the light before opening the door, the first thing his eyes focus on is the back of Sam’s head, his hair spread across the cheap motel pillow, too long, too shaggy. But it’s Sam. It’s just Sam. Making his way across the room, he picks up his socks and boots, putting them on quietly. He plucks the motel keys from the tiny table and puts them in his front pocket, next to the lube. When his fingers brush the plastic, he shivers, goose bumps rippling across his skin with alarming speed. He checks his back pocket and hears the tell-tale crinkle. He pulls out the condoms and counts a string of six and then puts them back into his pocket.   
  
Dean walks to the door and opens it silently, smoothly. He looks back at Sam.    
  
He’ll do what he has to. He always will. This is his family. This is  _Sam._  He’ll always come first.   
  
Dean will do what he has to. He has no other choice.


End file.
